Listen to my story,
and you might think twice before,
you proceed to judge me,
and show me to the door.
If you only knew the fear,
and the courage this took,
maybe then you would listen,
and give me a second look.
An alcoholic father,
who puts his hands on me,
is what I come home to,
everyday at three-fifteen.
A mother who blames me,
for the abuse that I recieve.
Never raising a finger,
to pack me up and leave.
A day full of insults,
as I walk through the halls,
and a foot in the aisles,
and laughter when I fall.
I never learned morals,
through all of my abuse,
nor the love of a parent,
so what is your excuse?
Does it make you feel better,
to make me feel small?
To just keep on pushing,
until I break down and bawl.
I never asked for this life,
for this heartache and shame.
I have enough problems,
without being your game.
I can cover up the bruises,
with second-hand clothes,
and I can walk with my head down,
so the guilt doesn't show.
But I can't ignore the fear,
that lives within me.
The fear of going home,
of how bad today will be.
I'm asking for help,
and for someone to stand.
For someone to listen,
and do what they can.
I understand rules,
and just how they work.
But why do the rules,
neglect someone who's hurt?
You can see all the bruises,
the scars and the burns.
Each one a lesson,
daddy thought I should learn.
So don't look at me,
as if I'm burdening you.
Because you only know a little,
of what I've been through.
I'm begging for help,
and for you to save me.
So please be my hero,
before three-fifteen.